Breathing white osmanthus
by AlessNox
Summary: John begins a new life with Sherlock, only to find that it isn't quite so easy to leave married life behind.
1. Old home, new home

John rolled over. He stretched out his arm patting the bed beside him as he searched for a body that wasn't there. His eyes opened, and he woke to the melancholy perfection that was his life. John didn't like to sleep alone, but as the world began to rush into the chasm of his sleeping consciousness, he remembered that he was a far, far distance from alone.

On the other side of the room, Sherlock lay sprawled across his bed, sheets askew, his foot sticking over the edge. John smiled at how a man so dignified in his waking bearing could look like such a child in sleep. The alarm rang then and John rolled on to his back with a groan. He lay with his head on the pillow squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to ignore the repeated beeping, then he signed remembering why he had set it so early. He pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to turn the alarm off with a quiet click.

His alarm never woke Sherlock. He wasn't sure why not, because sometimes Sherlock was wakened by the hitch in his breath that preceded a nightmare. He would sit on the side of John's bed and shake him awake to stop him, before the dream became too bad. It was strange for John to find himself sharing a room at his age, as if he and Sherlock were brothers. Especially strange since John had never had a brother, and Sherlock's brother was not the type of person with whom one would ever share a room.

John rose, pushing his feet into his slippers and lifting the robe from the back of the door to wrap around his body. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out the set of clothes that he had set aside for himself the night before, carrying it out of the room and closing the door quietly so as not to wake Sherlock. Not that that was likely. Yesterday, he had finished a case, and was in the midst of his _'sleep of the damned_'. Sherlock had never managed to figure out a way to sleep like a normal person. John smiled softly as he realized that he was thinking the thoughts _Sherlock_ and _normal_ as if those words had ever belonged together.

John hung his clothes on the inside of the bathroom door. He used the lavatory and washed his hands before tramping down the hall toward the kitchen. The lamplight spilled through the sitting room window. It was just bright enough for John to find the switch and turn on the kitchen light, yellow glow glaring off the linoleum table, and John thought again of buying a larger one as he shuffled across the room to fill the kettle.

John had his first mug of tea alone in the quiet of the flat. It was his meditation, his time to get his thoughts together before the chaos of the day began. He trained his eyes on the window, watching the spill of light through the curtain sheers as they slowly brightened, then when the sound of the trucks began to get louder, and he heard the first hoarse cawing of the crows on the rooftops, he would shower, shave and get dressed.

He pulled out a pan and started breakfast: eggs and toast, the bacon having been used up the morning before. Mary would have insisted on adding fruit as well, but John doesn't have the energy for complexity at breakfast time. Strawberry jam will have to do.

William was the first to come down. John heard the soft, rapid patter of his feet on the steps and had his plate ready by the time that he came out of the bathroom. He began eating immediately, saying 'good morning' as he shoved the first piece of toast in his mouth.

Violet followed in a more stately matter. Her honey blond hair spilling across her back as she passed by. She moaned in reply to his greeting, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

After a second egg, William jumped up, scraping the scant remnants of food off of his plate into the bin and placing it in the sink before rushing off to find that the bathroom door was locked.

"Let me in! I gotta brush my teeth."

"I'm in the shower."

"I can still brush my teeth while you're showering."

"I can't open the door. I'm in the shower."

"Dad, Violet won't open the door! I can't brush my teeth."

"Go upstairs and get dressed, you can brush them when she gets out," John said watching as William charged up the stairs.

Violet emerged a few minutes later wrapped in a lavender robe, a towel draped around her head like a crown as she made her way back upstairs to dress. John placed her plate of eggs in the oven to stay warm after checking to make sure that there were no body parts inside. Sherlock had been an angel, not having brought home so much as a fingernail since the kids moved in, but John always checked anyway to make sure.

Violet returned wearing a green dress, her hair tied up with a matching bow. She placed the napkin on her knees, daintily eating everything that her father served her. Luckily she was still too young to have discovered dieting.

"William, what are you doing with that boomerang?"

"I'm going to take it to school."

"You can't take that to school, William. It's a weapon."

"I know. Sherlock says that someone killed themselves with it. So cool! I want to show all my friends."

John plucked the boomerang out of his hands placing it back on the bookshelf. "Now let's leave Sherlock's things alone, shall we?"

"But dad!"

"What would happen if you ended up hurting a teacher? Then I'd get in trouble as well as you."

"But Sherlock says you like trouble."

"Not for my children, I don't."

"Oh dad. You never let us have any fun."

Violet walked past reaching for her coat, stopping when John put a hand on her shoulder. "We need to buy you some new clothes, that dress is getting too small. It's above your knee."

"But everyone wears them above the knee now."

"It seems a bit short to me."

"Oh dad, you are so old-fashioned." She buttoned her coat just as the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" William said charging down the steps like a hurricane.

"Careful! One of these days you're going to trip and break your head." John said as he followed him down the stairs, watching as William flung open the door revealing a brown-haired woman and her son. He rushed out to play with the boy on the sidewalk.

"Good Morning, Portia," John said placing one hand on the door frame.

"Good Morning, John. Looks like it's going to be a marvelous day today."

He looked up. "It appears so. Thanks for walking the kids to school. I would but ..."

"No, don't worry about it! I have to take Charles anyway, so it's no bother. And as you can see, he enjoys the company."

"Well I appreciate it anyway."

"Good Morning, Mrs Porco," Violet said gliding down the stairs.

"Morning, oh goodness." Mrs Porco exclaimed, turning to chase after the boys.

"Don't you have a goodbye hug for your father?" John asked with his arms outstretched.

Violet leaned over and gave him not just a hug, but a kiss as well before turning toward Mrs Hudson who had just exited from 221A carrying a bag of rubbish.

"Good Morning, Mrs Hudson," Violet said brightly.

"Good Morning, dear... and to you too, John."

Violet left then to follow the others, and John leaned out of the doorway to glance after her. He only tore his eyes away when he noticed Mrs Hudson trying to slip past him with her rubbish bags. "Let me do that for you, Mrs Hudson."

"Really, do you mind?"

"Of course I don't mind. It's no trouble to take this out to the bins for you."

"Well, thank you. It would save me lifting, and my hip isn't what it used to be."

.

John settled down in his chair to enjoy his second cup of tea while reading the newspaper.

Sometime around ten o'clock, Sherlock appeared, eyes half-closed, his robe hastily tossed over silk pajamas. He yawned, his mouth extending down, cheeks jutting out impossibly far, lengthening his face like a horse. He narrowed his eyes, before snatching the paper out of John's hands.

"Hey, I was reading that!" John yelled. Then he sighed rising to walk into the kitchen. Sherlock followed leafing through the pages. He grabbed a piece of toast abandoned on a plate, devouring it. Then he held out his hand grasping at air until John thrust a mug of coffee into it. He sipped, and hummed approvingly. Then he glanced around.

"Where are they?"

"What?"

"You know," Sherlock said waving his arm at waist level, "the short...ones."

"Do you mean my children? They've gone to school."

"Oh, I thought it was vacation or something... Easter?"

"That was weeks ago, do you even know what date it is?"

Sherlock peered up at the top of the newspaper, "Of course I do."

John snickered and returned to his seat.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work? I thought your grubby little practice would fall apart if you weren't there to prop it up."

"I'm taking the morning off. Won't have to go in till the afternoon. How'd the case go?"

"Dead simple in the end. No need to bore you with the details now. There'll be plenty of time later once I've had time to dress. There's a section missing. half of the obituaries are gone. What did you do with it, John?"

"There was an article that I wanted to read. I saved it."

"Saved it? Where?"

"In the drawer."

Sherlock strode across the room and fished the carefully folded pages out. He read through the death notices before turning the page over to reveal a photo of Mary. "What's this?"

"An article about Mary's company. Seemed interesting. I thought the kids might like it."

"Did you?" Sherlock said eyeing him warily before refolding the page and tossing it down on the surface of the desk. "I wonder why she allowed it? She's usually so careful to keep her picture out of the paper. Someone still could recognize her from her days as an assassin."

"Yeah, well, I wondered about that myself."

"Then again, the Mansfield murderer was elected Mayor of Swansea and served for two terms before anyone noticed, despite having his face on the police's most wanted list. People are idiots after all."

"I certainly hope so in this case."

Sherlock paced over to his laptop, opening it with one hand and tapping some keys as he checked his email. "Gustuf keeps inviting us to Croatia to hear my symphony. Are you sure that you can't make it, John?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't take the kids out of the country now. I'm going through divorce proceedings. It would be suspicious, as if I meant to abduct them."

"Leave them behind then."

"No."

Sherlock crossed his arms placing his hands in his armpits as he climbed into his chair to sulk. "You're no fun anymore."

"My children would agree with you," John said as he leaved through his bills.

Sherlock rose then and tossed himself down on the couch turning to face John. "He sent a recording of their practice. Do you want to listen to it?"

"Of course," John said smiling up at Sherlock and they spent the morning peacefully in each other's company listening to the music play on Sherlock's laptop speakers.

John went to work, returning that evening to find that Violet had cooked a dinner of sausages and rice. Mrs Hudson had been teaching her. They sat at the table together and ate, John's glowing pride making up for her brother's cutting remarks about the burnt sausages.

There was a note in William's bag. Apparently he had tried to make a boomerang of his own and knocked over some books in the library. John sent him to his room early. He stomped angrily up the stairs his feet echoing impossibly loud for someone so small.

Sherlock came home late that night. He had been at Barts looking at bodies again. He showered and then tossed himself on the bed so that they could talk before John fell asleep. Sherlock didn't sleep. Instead he reorganized his mind palace, putting in shelves for all of the parenting books that he had downloaded and read. He chatted with John about how the texts all seemed to contradict each other. He went on and on about how you could trace the rise and fall of attitudes on parenting by decade, before noticing that John was snoring. He shrugged then and turned on his side, and surprisingly, he fell asleep as well.


	2. Case of the missing student

Coming back from the Tesco, John bumped into Portia Porco and Charles in front of 221b Baker Street.

" Hello, Portia, Is it time?"

"Yes, is William ready?"

"I'll check."

John opened the door and yelled, "William!"

There was a rumble on the stairs like thunder. "I'm coming!" William shouted as he descended, rushing past his father with a black and white ball under his arm. He leaped over the threshold and bounced the ball up and down on his knee.

"Well, goodbye," Portia said with a wave as she herded the boys away.

John closed the door with a nudge of his shoulder and carried the groceries up the seventeen steps to the flat.

He entered to find Sherlock kneeling on the ground pouring water on a piece of paper balanced on a doll's face. Violet knelt beside him watching.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh hello Daddy. Sherlock is showing me how to kill Patty."

"You're killing your doll?"

"Mrs Joanna Furbisher killed her abusive husband with a newspaper and a cup of tea. He had fallen asleep with the paper over his face. She poured tea carefully on the newspaper soaking it so that it conformed to the area around his nose and blocked the air from coming in. He suffocated."

"Would that even work?"

"Normally no, the mouth will automatically open if the nose is sealed, but he had just gotten his jaw wired shut to help him lose weight, and she had locked his mouth closed with a pin used to open cans of sardines. It was the pin that helped me figure out what had happened."

John sighed and walked into the kitchen. "Sherlock, do you have to teach my children how to kill people?"

"She's the one who asked asked. Besides, you're going to write about it in your blog some day. I was just giving her a demonstration. Don't you care about your daughter's education?"

"Of course I do. That's why... oh never mind. Thanks by the way. I do appreciate you watching the children."

"Yes, uh...William is gone but I don't know where."

"He left with Mrs Porco. Football tryouts."

"You're letting him play football?"

"What's wrong with football?"

"It's just so...Plebian."

"He's an active boy. He should go out for football. He'll learn how to get along with others. Be a mate. Besides, I like football."

"Then why don't you encourage Violet to play?"

John turned and looked at Violet. She was pressing another sheet of paper over the doll's face. "Violet doesn't want to play football."

"Have you asked her? And it is well past the time they should have started taking music lessons. Studies have shown that music is tied to cognitive abilities. They are much too smart for that boring school. You should reconsider Mycroft's offer to get William and Violet into public school."

John put the milk that he was carrying down on the counter and held up his hand. "Sherlock, while I appreciate your opinion, there is one thing about my children that I want you to remember."

"What is that?"

"That they are MY children, and I will make decisions about their future, not you, and certainly not Mycroft. Since when have you started talking to Mycroft anyway? I thought that you were still feuding with him over that Greek ambassador case."

"I started talking to him again when he invited Gustaf's orchestra to participate in the _London International Composition Showcase_ this summer."

"London? Do you mean that I can hear your symphony without going to Croatia? That's wonderful."

Sherlock smiled.

John leaned over and hugged Sherlock. He whispered in his ear, "I know that it will be just brilliant."

When leaned back, Violet was at his side looking up at him. "Daddy, are we going to a concert?"

"Yes Violet. This summer we'll get to hear Sherlock's symphony."

"I think that I might like to learn to play Violin one day." Sherlock looked knowingly at John but didn't say a word. "Daddy, the milk will go bad if you leave it on the counter."

John picked up the milk and put it in the fridge. Then the doorbell rang. Sherlock and John raised their heads listening to the silence and said together, "Client."

"I'll get it!" Violet yelled running out of the room and down the stairs to open the door.

By the time that she had returned leading the client behind her, John had the room set up for the interview. It was a woman in her forties with blond hair streaked with white. She was tall, but she hunched over as she stood. Her blue patterned dress dripped limply below a navy peacoat edged in red embroidery.

"Thank you, Violet. Please go to your room now."

Violet nodded and walked out of the room as dignified as one of Mycroft's assistants. John closed the door behind her, but not before watching to see that she actually entered her bedroom and closed the door.

He sat in his chair, "So how can we help you?"

She looked at Sherlock and then back at John. Then she pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and blew her nose. "My name is Meridith Mitchell, and it's about my daughter. She's gone missing."

Sherlock who had been sitting back in his chair, sighed and then kicked his legs out, "Boring! Not interested, go away!"

"Sherlock!"

"The woman is from Yorkshire. Her daughter came to London to go to Uni, but she has checked there and found that she is no longer enrolled. Your daughter is fine. She just doesn't want to talk to you. Go to the police if you want to find her. We are not interested."

"But Sir, I have gone to the police, and they won't help me."

"Why not?" John asked.

"Because she's technically an adult, and she sent me a letter just last week. They say it proves that she's okay, but ... She's my daughter. She would never send me a letter like this unless something was wrong."

"Like what? Can I see the letter?"

"John, can we please get rid of her, you were about to make me some tea."

"Excuse my friend. He gets a bit irritable when he is in caffeine withdrawal. Please, let me see that." The woman gave the card to John who looked at it carefully. "Hmmm, London postal mark. No return address. Plain white card. For Margaret. For Margaret? What does that mean?"

"Well when it arrived it had some money in it. I think that it was for..."

"Margaret is her younger sister, John. Like I said, it's obvious. She came to London. She dropped out of school and yet still remembered her sister's birthday by sending her money that she would need because she knows that her mother can't have made enough as a seamstress to pay for the tuition to the school that she goes to. Your younger daughter does well in school, does she not?"

"Oh yes, sir. She's one of the smartest there. They say that with a little work she may win a grant to a top university."

"Thus the money. Go back home, madam, and take care of the daughter that you still have."

The woman turned to John then, "That girl, is she your daughter?"

"Yes, she is."

"She seems a fine girl. Well my girl, Annie, is a fine girl too. I gave her everything that I could: An expensive schooling, dance lessons, tutoring in Maths. It was the proudest day of my life when I heard that she had been accepted to a University in London to study accounting. She used to write, but then I heard less and less from her. I hadn't heard a word from her in four months, and then this shows up on Margaret's birthday, so I came to see her, and she's not here. She hasn't been a student for the last two terms!

"Please sir, you have a daughter. You know what it's like to worry. There are so many things that can happen to a young girl alone in the big city. I'm not naive. I've seen things in my day, and the fact that she's not giving me a return address, it suggests that she's afraid, and if she's hurt or in pain then I want to know about it. Please, from one parent to another. Please help me."

John glanced over at Sherlock who rolled his eyes before rising to his feet. "Alright, we'll consider your case. You just go back to the seamstresses conference and if we hear anything then we will leave you a message at the Ambassador hotel."

"How did you...?"

Sherlock opened the door and pushed the woman out of the room, "Good day, Mrs Mitchell," he said before shutting the door and leaning against it.

"Sherlock..."

"I could see that you wanted to take the case. God knows why, tedious. But I'll do it, if that's what you want."

"Thank you. So, where do we start?"

"With the card. Let me see it."

Sherlock picked up the envelope. He looked at it carefully, and even tasted the ink before pulling out the card and holding it to the light. "This card came from a store near a University. The paper, the size the weight the cut, all correspond to the type favored for writing the outlines of papers. It is an old technique in this world of computers, but there are still a few schools who require their students to learn to write papers the old way."

"So you think that she's gone into writing?"

"No. She's just gone to a store near the University which means that although she has dropped out of school, she did not move out of the area. She probably lives very close to where she was before. We need to go to the University and ask about Annie Mitchell. Come along, John."

Sherlock jumped up and reached for his coat.

"Violet!" John called.

She came out of her room and looked over the banister. "Sherlock and I are going out on a case. Please stay with Mrs Hudson, and you are on yellow protocol until I return. What's the codeword, pick one."

"Suffocate."

"Good word," Sherlock said.

"Take care, "John said to her before closing and locking the front door. "Really, Sherlock. She's more and more like you everyday."

Sherlock smiled, reaching up to flag down a taxi. Then he climbed it with John following on his heels.


	3. Spinning in circles

Their search led them to a warehouse not far from the University. They walked past a mural of a red and yellow striped tent surrounded by balloons to enter into a wide space covered with mats. There were ropes hanging from the ceiling and a tightrope. Near the center of the room were two long ribbons, one blue and one red, hanging from the high rafters. A half dozen people wearing t-shirts and leggings stood in the middle of the room. They turned toward Sherlock who strode confidently toward them. John hesitated, unzipping his jacket before following.

He caught up with Sherlock. "What do you suppose this is?"

"You should be able to deduce it, considering that you almost got killed the last time we were in such a place. This is a circus."

A tall woman with bright ginger hair walked up to meet them. She crossed her arms across the surface of her sequined white leotard and said, "May I help you?"

Sherlock turned then and stared at John who stepped forward and held out his hand. "Yes, hello. My name is John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. We're looking for Annie Michell is she here?"

"Annie? I don't think that I've heard that name before. What do you want this woman for anyway?"

"It's about her sister, Margaret," Sherlock said. His deep voice echoing through the large room.

A brown-skinned woman with long black braids pushed her way through the crowd. "Margaret? What's happened to Margaret?"

Sherlock smirked. "Annie Mitchell, I presume."

The woman in the white leotard sighed and then walked away, the rest of the group following at her heels.

"Why are you here, and what's wrong with my sister?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to find you quickly. John," Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and then turned to John. "I found her like you wanted."

John glanced at Sherlock who raised an eyebrow and stood there perfectly willing to say nothing.

"Ah well, as I said, my name is John Watson and we are detectives. We were employed by your mother to find you."

The woman stuck out her lower lip. Then she walked toward a bench to pick up her jacket. "What gives her the right to hire detectives? She shouldn't be wasting money like that."

"You don't think that your mother should be concerned about you?"

"I sent her a note. She knows that I'm not dead. That should be enough."

"But, you dropped out of school without telling her!"

"How could I tell her? She wouldn't want to learn that I left school. She doesn't want to know anything that doesn't fit in with her plans. She wants to hear that I've found a good, stable, high-paying job. Either that, or that I've found some rich bloke to marry, but that's not gonna happen. I get by. That should be good enough for her."

"What exactly is it that you do here?"

The woman smiled. "I'm a circus artist, or at least I hope to be one someday. Right now, I'm just working the ticket counter. I also do sound work, but I hope to become an aerial artist like Calliope there." She angled her head up and they followed her gaze to see the ginger woman high up, spinning rapidly on the long blue ribbon. She stretched her legs out straight, holding herself in a Y as she spun round faster and faster. Then she widened her legs into a V, slowing, before wrapping them around the ribbon and sliding down it. She landed on her hands, cartwheeling down and then making two more flips before standing in a triumphant pose. The others muttered appreciation as she gracefully spun on her toes and bowed.

"She's magnificent isn't she? I saw her last year, and I knew that this was where I wanted to be. Not in some stuffy old office. How can I tell my mother that I ran away to join the circus, after all that she's sacrificed?"

"Your mother is worried about you. She thinks that something terrible happened to you."

"No, it's something wonderful, but she won't think of it that way. She's never going to accept it. She won't accept anything strange or different."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," Sherlock said. "Perhaps you should ask your mother about her time making corsets in the eighties."

"Corsets? No, my mother makes dresses and does embroidery for skating costumes. She wouldn't sew anything as interesting as a corset."

"She did once. She used to make leather corsets...for men."

"My mother?"

"Ask her about it. I think that she may be a bit more tolerant of differences than you think."

"Annie," John said. "Your mother is at the Ambassador hotel. Please stop by and talk to her. She's worried about you."

Annie bowed her head, "Alright, I'll drop by after practice. Leather corsets, really?"

"Really," Sherlock said. Then he turned and strode toward the exit. John caught up with him.

"So tell me. How did you know about the corsets?"

Sherlock bent his head toward John. "It was the ties on her boots that gave it away. They bore an elaborate leather weaving style widely used in the London gay scene of the eighties. I recognized it."

"Sherlock, why do you know so much about the London gay scene?"

"You should know by now, John, that I know everything."

"You do not."

"Well... virtually everything. I told you that case was dead easy. How about Ethiopian for lunch?"

.

When they returned to the flat, Sherlock froze in the entryway motioning for John to be quiet. "Someone's here," he whispered.

"But, we are code yellow. Violet shouldn't have let anyone other than family members into the house."

Sherlock pointed above them, and they slowly, silently climbed upstairs. Sherlock stood in front of the door, and John walked toward the kitchen, clenching his hands, upset that he didn't have his gun.

They rushed in at the same time ready for anything, only to find Mary sitting on the sofa next to Violet. The baby stood on the floor at her feet. "Oh Hello boys," she said. "I thought that I heard you downstairs."

"What are you doing here?" John asked.

"Don't worry, It's not an inspection or anything. I have business to discuss."

The downstairs door crashed open then and there was a heavy step on the stairs, "I made the team! Daddy, I made... Mummy!" William rushed across the room and jumped into Mary's arms. "Mummy, I made the football team."

"Really, William, that's wonderful. Why don't you go downstairs and tell Mrs Hudson all about it. Violet, can you take Wen and go down as well? I need to have a talk with Sherlock and your father."

"Yes, Mummy."

Violet picked up the nappy sack and the baby and walked to the steps.

"Careful now!" her father called out after her, but he needn't have bothered. She was always careful. Unlike her brother who had flown down the steps two at a time and was loudly banging on Mrs. Hudson's door.

John watched to make sure that they were all safely in Mrs Hudson's room, before closing the door to the hall. John still felt agitated. His lungs were stiff in his chest, and his heart was beating too fast. "Now, what's all this about? Why you're here?"

Mary frowned. "There was once a time when you would be glad to see me."

"Mary," Sherlock said sitting forward, his piercing eyes focused on the careless way she played with her hands. "Something happened. What's wrong?"

Mary glanced up at John who stood near her shoulder. Then she turned to Sherlock, sitting back as she rubbed her thumbs absently. "I didn't want to say anything in front of the children. They shouldn't know, it would only worry them."

"What?" John asked. "What happened?"

"This morning, when I was in my flat, someone tried to kill me."


End file.
